something about two rings
by DarkHorseBlueSky
Summary: It's a proposal two hundred and thirty years in the making. [Oneshot. What it says on the package, basically.]


**A/N: i forgot to post this from my AO3! sorry guys. not that any of you followed me for good omens stuff but i think, after almost 7 years of me doing what i want, i don't actually care what people followed me for**

**anyway take this**

* * *

The ex-demon Crowley was many things. An impulsive shopper he was not.

He had had his eye on the ring for quite some time now, since 1794, actually. At first the idea seemed rather silly. Why buy when you could snap your fingers and have one, perfectly sized, with the purest of metals and stones, in an instant? But Crowley was rather fond of the concept of buying. Money was a messy thing, a hypnotic sort of institution that stirred more evil than he could ever take credit for on its own. Whenever he took part in buying something, he couldn't help but feel a swell of — well, some emotion that he couldn't quite name. Pride? Awe? Something. He liked to watch jewelers in particular. There was a kind of poetic justice to seeing one party go off with a worthless piece of metal and another party go off with an equally useless sum of numbers, both thinking that they had gotten the better "deal" and that it would somehow make their lives better.

But even greater than the schadenfreude was the artistry of it all. The obsession with which a jeweler could bend over an ugly rock, tend to it, and care for it until it was a shining star — it birthed a much more complex emotion that he might be able to name, but which he was too proud to attempt. Why deal with complex emotions if you could repress them? It made perfect sense to Crowley.

He had developed an interesting relationship with a certain lineage of humans over this matter. The Miracles (ironically named) had owned a custom jewelry shop for a little over two hundred years, passing ownership and skill sets from father to son to granddaughter to great-grandson, et cetera. Though their craftsmanship was excellent, the jewelry business was tough, especially with the rise of online shopping. But they got by. They had help, after all.

For 230 years, Miracle & Sons Jewelry had occupied a corner shop down the block from Crowley's flat. On the morning this tale begins, Crowley took an early morning walk to visit them.

The brass bell jingled as he stepped inside. At the back of the shop, a young dark-skinned woman stood at the counter, speaking with a couple. She glanced up and her face brightened. "Mr. Crowley! I'll be with you just a moment," she said.

"Thank you, Minerva," said Crowley. He put his hands in his pocket as he began to browse, his reflection crossing the glass of the hanging picture frames. Miracle & Sons boasted an eclectic collection of wall decorations; family photos, newspaper clippings boasting commissions from celebrities, unique pieces that were not for sale. The centerpiece was a 200-year-old pencil sketch of the shop's founder, Amadeus Miracle, next to his wealthy benefactor and investor Anthony J. Crowley. The current Crowley would be Anthony J. Crowley VII, or maybe VIII, he had lost track. Crowley was almost certain that the family had figured out that he wasn't at all mortal and was, in fact, the same person, but they were polite folk and never pried.

The young couple left with a pair of child's earrings and Minerva stepped out from the counter. "Mr. Crowley, it's been ages!" she smiled, shaking his hand. "How's your father?"

"His mind's going, but alright," said Crowley.

"What brings you in?"

Crowley couldn't suppress the smile that rose to his lips.

"I'm here to pick up something," he said.

Minerva's eyes widened. She whirled around and looked at the pencil sketch.

"You mean...?" she whispered.

Crowley nodded.

A million expressions passed across Minerva's face. All shades of disbelief and shock before settling on joy. She even laughed.

"I'll go get the tools!" she said, running to the back room.

The tools she got were a stepladder, a flathead screwdriver, and her polishing kit. Crowley helped her take the two-foot-tall framed sketch off the wall, set it gently on a table in the waiting area, and unscrew the back panel. Nestled in the corner of the frame was a small paper envelope. Minerva put on gloves, lifted it in both hands, and looked at Crowley.

"You open it," he said.

"But it's yours — "

"You know you want to."

Reverently, Minerva took the envelope to the counter and laid it out in front of her polishing kit. Then she peeled back the paper. Inside was a sturdy gold ring, set with a round diamond. Delicate carvings, like the feathers of two wings, encircled the four-carat stone. A complimentary piece to the ring Aziraphale already wore on his right pinky. Crowley was certain that there was nothing else like it — angel inspired, man made, and demon designed.

"When your ancestor opened this shop," he said, "my ancestor was the first customer. He commissioned this ring and paid in full, but he didn't take it home, didn't even look at it. Amadeus was instructed only to hide it away and keep it safe until it was time."

"It's beautiful," said Minerva, holding the ring under a magnifying glass. "I never thought I'd get to see it."

Crowley let himself smile again. He had never been more glad for his glasses; his eyes had found it appropriate to tear up. Before him, within his grasp, lay the brightest star he'd ever brought into creation.

"Yeah," he said. "Me neither."

* * *

He spent the whole day planning what he would say, writing and rewriting and re-rewriting until the scrapped notecards began to pile like snowdrifts. At one point, he grew so frustrated that he set them alight, filling the flat with smoke. It was a good thing that Crowley did not yet know what fire alarms were.

Finally, but also too soon, it was time. The clock struck five thirty. Crowley only managed to scribble some thoughts together on his last few note cards before giving up and shoving blank ones in his pocket to fill out...sometime. He snapped his fingers, changing into a suit, heels, and a red tie (Crowley had special seats reserved tonight, only the fanciest for the occasion) and then rushed to the bathroom to check his face, his clothes, his breath. He even ran a comb through his hair. He hadn't used combs in years and using one did nothing to improve his hair, which was already nice. But the placebo effect helped calm his nerves. After double-triple-quadruple checking that the ring was securely in his pocket, Crowley rushed out the door and practically dove into the Bentley.

He stopped by the Ritz first to drop off the ring, a nice detour that included a good several minutes of very specific warnings about what might occur if this _ same _ ring was _ not _ delivered in the _ exact _fashion that Crowley had instructed. Over the past few years, the staff had become rather accustomed to the strange man in the dark glasses who only ordered minimal food and seemed to finish it by unhinging his jaw and swallowing it all in a second. But that day, they experienced things that put them all on their guards again.

Crowley hadn't been this nervous about something since — well, ever.

It was a blur, driving between the Ritz and the bookshop; figuratively, because Crowley was scribbling notes for his speech with one hand and driving with the other, as well as literally, because more than once Crowley surpassed 100 miles per hour. And then he was on the doorstep, his gut twisted like a whole nest of snakes, his hands jittering so much that passerby frowned and wondered privately if he was alright.

_ I can do this. I am totally capable of doing this. _

The door opened.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, beaming.

_ I'm weak and very incapable of doing this. _

"Uh, hi," said Crowley very eloquently. He swallowed. Aziraphale looked just the same as every day, same jacket, same smile, same soft expressive eyes. There was one change, two thin gold earrings, barely noticeable if you didn't know they were there. Crowley remembered going with Aziraphale to get them done a year ago. How the angel had squeezed his hand.

Their hands met again. Aziraphale stepped forward and pressed his lips chastely to Crowley's cheek. "You look lovely. Shall we go?"

The kiss nearly sent Crowley into orbit, despite the fact he had had very many of them before this moment. "Yes, of course," he managed.

"Did you do something with your hair?"

"I did, actually. Like it?"

"I like everything you do with your hair, my dear."

Their hands linked, they walked.

It had been an...interesting five years since the almost-End, to say the least. The Antichrist had turned sixteen a week ago. The Them were still just as ragtag and mischievous as before, though they were becoming less known as the kids playing fantasy in Hogback Wood and more known as the kids who trespassed in weird abandoned buildings to take artistic photography with the graffiti. Former Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracey were firmly settled in the countryside. Former Witchfinder Private Pulsifer and Miss Anathema Device were on a wild journey around the world to visit the strangest occult places known or unknown to man (Anathema had asked Crowley for recommendations). Above and Below had been quiet. No signs of Second Armageddon. Not that Crowley and Aziraphale expected to be told about it this time, but it seemed that they were keeping their eyes peeled for nothing at all.

As for Crowley and Aziraphale themselves, that's a story for another author.

It ended like this, a comfortable sort of intimacy. It was new, but also…wasn't, somehow. There were new parts. These were easy to see. The kissing, the hand-holding, the nights at each other's places. The experiments of a _ very certain kind _. The honesty was new; the independence and the reliance on nobody but themselves; the peace of mind that for reasons they didn't know, the Almighty was satisfied, letting them have this beautiful thing with each other.

Yet it was all familiar in a way that made them both feel like they'd done it before, even though they hadn't. Eventually they would realize why. It wasn't familiarity like meeting someone you've known before; it was familiarity like watching the same face flicker through the window of a passing bus, day after day, a thousand times over, before finally sitting down with the person for tea. It was there before and had always been. It had only lacked a name. It had only lacked a permanence.

Crowley hoped that the ring might help make sense out of it all.

They arrived just in time for their reservation and were seated as the sun settled into the trees. They sat near an open window and it was a beautiful day — perfect, despite yesterday's forecast of rain, because Crowley had planned ahead and called in a favor from Adam.

The courses were lovely and the joy on Aziraphale's face was lovelier.

"I am just _ saying," _the angel giggled, delicately kissing the tops of his fingers to relieve them from a smudge of lamb sauce, "that when it comes to matters of chance, I really still don't trust you, Crowley."

Crowley gave a barking laugh. "That's ridiculous."

"I know you pull strings, even when I flip the coin!" Aziraphale insisted.

"How can you know? I don't win all the time."

"You do!"

"What about Tuesday, or two Saturdays ago, I lost on those flips."

"Perhaps you lost those times to throw me off your scent!"

"Would I?"

"You did it in the arrangement."

"Name one time that I seemed glad to perform your miracles for you."

"1969. Apollo 11. You acted just as huffy but I knew that losing that one was important to you."

Crowley just raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale's eyes widened.

"Ohhh," he said.

"The question remains," said Crowley, "why the hell I'd have an interest in blessing the moon landing mission."

"It still doesn't explain you losing on Saturday and Tuesday."

"And what would, Angel?" Crowley asked, resting his chin on his hand.

"Fortuitous dishonesty, as I've been saying."

"Perhaps I don't mind it when I lose."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but petered out. He was stumped. Crowley reached across the table and slipped his hand under Aziraphale's.

"Could it be," said Crowley softly, to escape the notice of the highbrow guests around them, "that I enjoy being with you no matter who's 'taking the lead' in bed?"

"Well, I know you do," said Aziraphale, his cheeks tinted.

"Yes, but now you _ know," _he said. "How about this? No more coin tosses, just a turn system. You start. Your turn tonight."

Now Aziraphale's soft cheeks were a rich, full pink. "Crowley."

"I mean it."

"You don't even know if I'll be in the mood tonight."

Crowley brushed his thumb against the back of Aziraphale's hand. "I know I can do my best to change that."

They both smiled. Aziraphale's gaze moved from Crowley's hand to his lips, then to the sunset fading behind the London skyline. Crowley just watched him, taking in every detail of his face, how his hand felt intertwined with his own.

Something tapped against his shoulder. Crowley turned to see a somewhat nervous-looking waiter. Immediately, his blood ran cold. It was time.

Aziraphale must have noticed something — a change in Crowley's pulse, a slight shaking of the table caused by the bouncing of his leg, a spike of emotion sensed with that angelic empathy — because he pulled back and frowned. But before he could say anything, the waiter cleared his throat.

"May I take your plates before dessert?"

"Of…course," said Aziraphale slowly, not taking his eyes off Crowley. Crowley just focused on the waiter. When the boy looked back at him, he nodded subtly, a silent message.

"What was that about?" asked Aziraphale when the waiter had left.

"Nothing, really," said Crowley. "Just a little surprise."

"Oh?"

"Anniversary gift. You know. Thought I'd get you a special something, for our five-year." If Crowley _ could _feel nauseous, he definitely did right now. He stifled an anxious belch.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed and he reached across the table. "Crowley, really, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," said Crowley, a little more snippily than intended. He didn't give Aziraphale his hand. It was shaking too badly.

"For a demon, you really are a terrible liar."

This was too soon. It was all too fast. Aziraphale wouldn't say yes, not by a long shot. Had they talked about this? Yes. Had they agreed it was something that might be fun to try? Yes. Had Crowley actually considered how hard it would be? Not at all. Out of the corner of Crowley's eye, he caught the movement of a waiter through the tables, carrying two filled champagne glasses. There was still plenty of time to snap his fingers and whisk the boy away somewhere else, postpone this whole debacle until…well, what did it matter when. Just not now.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale's voice snapped him back. He looked up. Aziraphale wasn't just confused; he was worried. Almost scared. It hurt to see, it was paralyzing. The Greeks had coined this concept — _ hamartia, _ the fatal flaw, the one thing that never failed to bring a hero to his knees. For Crowley, it was this, it was the fact that he loved Aziraphale more than he could handle, it was the indecision and the fear of rejection over and over and over until the end of time. It was a fear so strong that the last five years didn't even feel real. The years where Aziraphale finally began to say yes.

He needed something to ground him. His trembling hands clawed in his jacket pockets until he found the notecards. He looked down at them. He couldn't read the words; the handwriting was too shaky and he couldn't hold them still enough. He shoved them back in his pocket. He couldn't remember anything he'd written down before.

_ Almighty, give me strength. _

The prayer burned to even think. But then, inexplicably, breath filled Crowley's lungs.

He looked up and reached across the table, closing Aziraphale's hands in both of his.

"Aziraphale," he said.

Aziraphale's eyes were wide, glimmering. "Yes?"

_ You let me have this for a reason, let me do this. _

Crowley exhaled.

"The day we met, in Eden," he began, "something happened. At first I thought it was me. That maybe I just wasn't as powerful as I thought I was, or maybe, I was losing my touch. Wouldn't surprise me."

"Crowley, I don't understand."

"I could feel how much you distrusted me," said Crowley. "That's what it was. All I could feel from you, wariness. What else did I expect. You were the first angel I'd met since — since I fell, really. The problem was what happened after that. You spoke to me. You told me about the sword. You…protected me from the rain. And I felt the distrust begin to fade, right then. Time passed and it got fainter. Eventually I didn't feel much at all."

The worry on Aziraphale's face softened. "I learned to trust you," he said. "I liked you a lot, even back then."

"But I didn't know that," Crowley replied. "You'd never admit it. I waited to feel something else, maybe for a different emotion to take its place, but it never happened. It was terrifying, for so many years, because I'd be with you and wouldn't have even the fuzziest idea as to how you actually saw me. It's not like I could ask; it might all go pear-shaped and then what was I to do. It took me a while to realize, hell, this is what the humans feel like all the time. No wonder their relationships are such a mess."

Both of them chuckled. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand. The heart he didn't need was pounding in his chest.

"All I could do was ask and hope," he said softly. "The past five years have given me more than I could have ever asked, more than I could have ever hoped. I love you, Aziraphale, and being able to say that aloud is — well, it's almost unbelievable."

The waiter appeared. Crowley's heart skipped a beat as he placed the filled flutes on the table with the champagne bottle. The ring glittered in the bottom of Aziraphale's glass, catching the light. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice. His attention was fully on Crowley.

"So...a toast, then," said Crowley, raising his glass. "To honesty."

Aziraphale smiled and raised his. "To honesty," he said. "And to us."

"To us," Crowley agreed.

They sipped. Too anxious to see what would happen, Crowley closed his eyes as he lifted his glass to his lips. Across the table, Aziraphale gave a small gasp.

"That's odd," he said. "Crowley...someone dropped a ring in this glass!"

Crowley looked. Aziraphale was frowning into the glass. He hesitated to reach in, then miracled it right up to his hand, perfectly dry and glittering. Then he looked at Crowley with a pleased expression.

"I read about this!" said Aziraphale. "This is a wedding engagement tradition. Some lovely lady must be in want of a ring. Waiter! Oh, waiter, this glass went to the wrong table — "

_ Oh, bloody hell. _ "Angel, sit down," Crowley snapped. "It's at the right table. It's for _ you _."

The words seemed to silence the whole restaurant.

Aziraphale stared at him for the longest time, his mouth open and eyes glimmering. He looked at the ring, then at Crowley, then the ring, then the glass, then the ring, and finally Crowley.

Slowly, speechless, he gave the ring to Crowley. Crowley stood up and got down on one knee, his back to the room so he could take off his glasses. Their gazes locked. Now the place was quiet for real.

"Whatever happens to this, whatever labels we put on it," said Crowley, "I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is real. I don't need a ring to know that you'll stand with me through whatever Hell and Heaven send our way. But I want to make sure they know that too — I want to say it loud and proud once and for all."

He inhaled. It was like all of the nerves had built up all day, only to leave as he gazed up at Aziraphale, his hair ringed like a halo in the chandelier light.

"Aziraphale, will you be my…"

The last word was lost. Before Crowley could finish, Aziraphale dug something out of his pocket — a tiny black velvet box.

"Oh my God," whispered Crowley, his hand going over his mouth.

If Aziraphale's smile could get any brighter, it did. He literally glowed a little, giggling, unable to contain himself. Around the restaurant, curious watching turned into outright gasping as Aziraphale opened the box.

It was a very different kind of ring. A simple wide band. Matte black tungsten inlaid with purple goldstone, glittering like the stars of the sky. Now it was Crowley's turn to look back and forth at the box and Aziraphale, over and over.

"The day we met, in Eden," Aziraphale laughed, "something happened. At first I thought it was me. That maybe I was imagining things. But it was real. I watched you fall in love with me, Crowley, from that very day, and every time we met it grew only deeper. It terrified me. I'd never felt — I'd never seen a love so powerful, much less between people like us. It wasn't supposed to happen. _ I _ wasn't supposed to let it happen. I knew that once I let it happen, there would be no stopping it. I'd fall with you."

The place was filled with a hushed reverence. Joyful tears beaded in Aziraphale's eyes, and he wiped them away hurriedly before taking the ring out of the box.

"But if the Almighty strikes me down, it'll be worth it," he said. "Crowley, I will marry you, will you marry me?"

Crowley couldn't help it. He was crying too. He swore and wiped his eyes with a table napkin, then nodded quickly. He hurried to get his ring on Aziraphale's hand, and Aziraphale gently slid his ring onto Crowley's.

They'd never rushed into a kiss so fast, in front of so many people, in such a wave of applause.

But it felt right.


End file.
